"cement" poems
African woman
Mother of civilization.
Oh beautiful woman,
Thou are beyond description.
African woman
Queen of the people of Mamba.
Jambo to all those in heaven
Bless you too my dear mama.
African woman
Royal Nubian Queen.
The backbone of her man
You'll do anything to help him win.
Single Black woman
Made of broken pieces
You're the breadwinner,Superwoman.
You're the symbol of strength in all places.
African woman
Daughter of Eve's.
Thou are God's true specimen,
And the apple of his eyes.
Black woman
Daughter of Africa.
Blueprint of a **** woman,
Dark hue of coffee arabica.
African woman
Mother of humanity
Chieftess of ancient Nyngoman,
Mama Africa's bounty.
African woman
My Mandingo bride.
First woman of Africa's Eden
Center of God's black tribe.
Nigerian woman
My Yoruba Queen.
Envied by the women of Oman,
Cafe ou lair, cream of Africa's cream!
Warrior woman,
Queen of Wakanda.
Come and flip your wand,
Find the soul of Sarafina.
Curvy woman
In your womb lies Africa's future.
My Lormah woman
Oyobuays marvels at your structure.
Beautiful woman,
Perpetual envy of the silicon woman.
Pride of the Black man,
The essence of a real woman.
Indigo Woman
Lillies of the African plains.
Thou are Eve of the African Eden,
Best of the portraits that nature paints.
Voluptous woman,
Full, thick natural lips.
Real assert of the Black woman,
Nature gets aroused by your hips.
Ellen Sirleaf, today's woman,
Africa's first female president.
A Liberian woman,
Loved and revered wherever she went.
Smile ,Gambian woman,
You're daughter of Sarakunda.
Roots of the Black American woman,
Captives of the kanda Bolinga.
South African woman
Mariam Makeba
Sang for freedom and fought like a man
You were truly Soweto's finest Deva.
Dark ebony woman,
You are red, yellow and green.
Hanmatan wind stops at your command,
Born to slay and be seen.
African woman
Thou are the only reason
God put Adam in a coma.
Your perpetual beauty transcends time and Season.
African woman,
Under your cleavage, the Nile flows
And between your fingers, golden threads are woven,
You are the reason Beyonce glows.
Harriet Tubman, brave woman
Smuggled slaves underground.
She was a freed Black slave woman,
Who avowed to leave no soul behind.
Creative woman
Maya Angelou, gifted poetess.
Famous writer and a Black woman
Will be remembered for her poetic prowess.
Native African woman,
Africa's limestone and cement.
A mother, a wife, virtuous woman,
Lioness and the spine of the continent.
Liberian woman
Roots of my poetry, you gave me life
You are every woman.
Your edges are sharper than the Sumarais knife.
#IvanBrookspoetry©
13/8/2018
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 4:56 AM UTC
They look out from the terrace.
At the borders of sight
live rocky hills behind brown
and golden and olive crop
under a cloudless sky.
BANG!
An artificial cloud.
“Mira,” she points, “Venga!”
They fly down stairs,
diving like sparrows
into the street.
Boys sprint across pavements and climb;
men vault over fences in time
for news to reach ears.
"¡Ya vienen!"
Excitement and fear.
The rattling of cow bells
and galloping nears.
Men bait and dodge horns
and escape through doors
and up and over
red wooden bars.
Sticks beat on the concrete ground
and closer, louder, gallops sound.
Seconds away –
until the last,
he side steps into a house;
indoors,
apart,
he runs through the foyer
and up the stairs
around a corner
with long strides
too fast to follow.
She chooses left and
sings soprano
when doors won't budge
and
it
crashes
in.
She turns and the fear is paralysing.
"FERMIN!"
"FERMIN!"
"FERMIN!"
He hurdles the stairs
and explodes
but it rams her
to and fro,
thrashing her head
against the wall
where horns
sin and gore
cement and brick.
He clasps the tail
and heaves its hide from
side to side as
hooves smash
crates of wine -
they slip and slide
in fractured glass;
he finds a horn
and yanks the head!
He's yanked instead
near dead before the men
arrive down stairs
to punch and kick it;
strike and stick it
smack and hit it;
'til it
fits and quits
and flees the foyer,
fast and frantic,
flying flustered
by the frenzy,
finally finding
pattering
paves
it
peters
off
down
the
street.
"¿Que ha pasado?
¿Quien ha sido?
¡El Balbotin
y la Chicha!
¡Que una vaca
les ha pillado!"
"¿Estas bien?"
Dizzy she's there
with searching hands
and scolding.
"Podria haber sido peor"
Apr 25, 2018
Apr 25, 2018 at 7:09 PM UTC
ugly men burning their bay leaves
in pots of static gardens
underneath all this cement
your past is looking at you indecently
so change the words around you
you can shift their meaning
its all a game and no-one's winning
your tired emotions accent your poetry
umbrellas are scars that carry symphonies in their hearts
you held my hand as we welcomed god back into our skylines
her face is as familiar as the stars
we originated from
with ulcers open in quiet hurting
your youth are wordless and distrustful of angst ridden authority
in unsuspecting situations love’s vacation is ending
her wedding gown got quite *****
since she literally spent her entire honeymoon
wandering idly into banks of muddy water
humanity is worthy of justice and sweaty romance
i breathe your flesh into my bottle
and we take boundless walks upon the clouds
that straddle mountains, graveyards and cemeteries
fresh from wading in the rice fields
i peeled you a ripe banana
under pressure your sweater came off
and revealed a perfect metric for us to emulate
your eye sockets are two umbilical chords
and your voice is a curved sword that cuts through fear
like the moon slices through the sky
i have held all of this inside for far too long
and now it comes shattering forth
spilling itself over every page
every letter an escapade almost as long
as an Eskimo's pilgrimage to safety
Feb 26, 2018
Feb 26, 2018 at 11:36 PM UTC
To the Goddess of morn
who made bread from fire
and taught me how to read
to read the wreaths of coffee
into the songs of dawn.
And to the Mason who
showed me how to hammer,
form out of chaos
and cherish the scent of
the cement on grey-green walls.
© LazharBouazzi
Mar 16, 2018
Mar 16, 2018 at 9:47 AM UTC
She was a wild flower
In a skyscraper forest
Poking her sun fire petals out
Through cracks in the cement
Climbing the buildings until she could
Freely drink the sunlight
And oh how she grew
Like a wildflower
In a skyscraper forest
Dec 22, 2014
Dec 22, 2014 at 3:38 AM UTC
if the ocean would carry me
it'll collapse under the weight of my bones
made with cement and steel
and the burden each brick owns
witness the waves howler and scream
just like the heart caged in my chest
blood bubbling around the muscle
surging with every beat and protest
the bottom of the sea may be quiet
like my tongue folded neatly in my mouth
though feral beasts deep within
choke with pressure more than i can count
the ocean and i are seperate
both flowers from different gardens
one ephemeral, one wilting before your eyes
but both's head tilting up to the heavens
sorrowful eyes, swirling, storm awakening
chaos mingling betwixt water and blood
ravid souls in dire need of feeding
cursed and blessed by god
i wonder if i could carry the ocean
within just the corners of my palm
i and the ocean - we are one
a catastrophe after the calm
Jun 19, 2017
Jun 19, 2017 at 10:22 AM UTC
I am the rose that grew from concrete
Budded from stones, rocks, mortar, cement, broken glass, drug vials and bags.
I am a product of my environment.
What you thought would **** me,
Only served to make me stronger.
Evolved into a hybrid
I'm the only of my kind.
My thorns fortified with brass knuckles,
My color faded from weather beatings,
And all other beatings,
The travesty of my existence
is not lost on me.
Beauty in the midst of pain,
And what is the epitome of ugly.
I don't belong here and never did.
Wisdom I have absorbed
From rains never to come again
Rejuvenates my leaves.
Although I cannot absorb it all,
Through the cracks in the concrete.
I relish what I can
And vow to absorb more the next time,
Should I be so fortunate.
Because the concrete can protect
As well as expose my naivete.
So compelling to manipulate,
It would be ideal to control.
Impossible though.
How can you control
What grows and survives in the midst of chaos?
And at what cost to your soul?
Even through the ominous clouds,
I remain in light.
The Sun has never been immune to my plight.
Providing the strength, energy and hope
I'll need for the next season of my fight.
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 2:00 AM UTC
You don’t decide who
Will make your heart race.
The corners of your lips just
Upturn so suddenly
That you only notice your smile
When you step forward and feel
The cement pieces
Of a shattered frown
On the ground beneath your feet.
Oct 2, 2018
Oct 2, 2018 at 11:45 PM UTC
I've come by, she says, to tell you
that this is it. I'm not kidding, it's
over. this is it.
I sit on the couch watching her arrange
her long red hair before my bedroom
mirror.
she pulls her hair up and
piles it on top of her head-
she lets her eyes look at
my eyes-
then she drops her hair and
lets it fall down in front of her face.
we go to bed and I hold her
speechlessly from the back
my arm around her neck
I touch her wrists and hands
feel up to
her elbows
no further.
she gets up.
this is it, she says,
this will do. well,
I'm going.
I get up and walk her
to the door
just as she leaves
she says,
I want you to buy me
some high-heeled shoes
with tall thin spikes,
black high-heeled shoes.
no, I want them
red.
I watch her walk down the cement walk
under the trees
she walks all right and
as the pointsettas drip in the sun
I close the door.
15.4k
We’re all different
A fact that some will take with stride
And others will take out their black & white boxes
Trying to cram you into margins that you’ll never fit into
Labels
Just another way to categorize us as objects
Smashing our individuality with a hammer
Until we are all identical, with no more identity
Freedom
Something we are considered lucky to have
Where other countries struggle day by day
Fighting to stay themselves
Yet in our free country
I still find myself fighting for liberation,
Scratching at the cement surface
For endless years
Walking around, trying to be uniform
It’s meant to make us comfortable, but makes me die inside
We all walk in straight, marching band lines like militia members
And walk on forever without a second thought
Individuality
A gift given to us all that we must cherish, hold onto
Accept everyone around you for their good and bad habits
Accept people for who they are, whether you like them or not
One day, I will break free
Run in the opposite direction
With my arms spread out wide
Feeling like Rosa Parks when she claimed her seat
One day I will not be scared of my freedom
One day I will not be scared of trying to explain to people who I am
I will never be scared of friends
I will never be scared of strangers
I will never be scared of family
Boys, girls, adults, parents, siblings
One day I won’t be scared of myself anymore
Scared of making the wrong decisions
And letting everyone around me down
The weights of expectations always make me hide in the shadows
To where I feel I’ll never be good enough
But today, I smile at all my obstacles
With my mind set on “Dare To Be Dangerous”
Because exploring everything around me
Has been a roller coaster of joviality that I’ve always needed
I’ve made new friends this year
Gotten very close to others
But I learned an important lesson
I love who I am
And I will come to accept the future me
But for now I’m different
And that’s all I ever wanted to be
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 11:22 AM UTC
Le ***** Quest
Glasses up, Hair down
*** up, Face down
Ignore the sisters, I’m after the cousins
The catholic approved crevasse to bust in
I wouldn’t say im obsessed
But the ***** demon has me possessed
I’d call you blessed, its what you guessed
I’m hard pressed to bend you east and get at the west
I’m on a ***** quest with a lascivious request
to admire the caboose cleft
I can’t repent the intent of this unspent cement
But I’ll give up hemp for lent
Embark on a posterior pilgrimage of preposterous proportions,
Devoted to the search for thy voluminous bloons for which I swoon
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 11:50 PM UTC
There's a silence in the evening,
A silence most displeasing.
It's not the absence of mowers running,
Or bedsheets flapping, motors humming.
Trains still shunt, foghorns blast,
Where are the sounds
From our past?
It's not the sound of contrary laughing
Walking from a parent's lashing.
Something's missing, sounds are gone,
Familiar sounds from our lawns.
The sound of rope slapping cement,
Fantasy games kids invent.
An echoing slapshot before, "Car!"
These missing sounds are so bizarre.
Those yestergames we played in jest,
Like Hide and Seek at dusk was best.
But outside games gave way to screens,
I'd rather hear childish screams.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 11:08 AM UTC
Where are you?
You were in the palm of my hands
You were in the shadows of my smile
You were in the air I breathe
You were tucked in the folds of my heart
But where are you now?
You were safe in my hands
A shell chosen amongst so many
In the ocean bed I lifted you
Saved you from the angry sea
But you were just a shell and I should've known
Biology 101
Shells are empty
So were you
You were never there
Biology 101
Shells are temporary home
You just passed me by
Like a Bed and Breakfast
*Fast and easy,
Cheap and convenient*
How sad to think I never stood a chance
Against the home made of old stones and scented candles
Dry cement and family pictures
I
was
NEVER
Part of your family
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 5:07 PM UTC
love
its a beautiful thing really,
its brutal, its strong
it so deep, and so heartwarming,
and at the same time,
it makes me want to cry, scream
pound my bed,
punch the white cement wall until my knuckles are ****** raw
and the wall has a display of reds.
it makes me want to break an elegant expensive vase, and crush it in my hand.
its destructive, desired, dangerous,
and yet
i want to laugh
i want to sing
and dance!
dance to oh what a night
dance with my yellow watercolored pillow case, with my favorite pillow stuffed inside
oh, love is so peculiar isn’t it?
its spectacular,
and its like standing in the middle of a ballroom
where dresses and suit ties of different hues reflect the chandelier light hanging from the ceiling,
an array of rainbows cast on the walls.
and yet, theres an emptiness…
one I’m afraid i cannot fill, and rely on you to.
its like standing in an ocean of chaos, of excitement and watching it from afar at the same time.
i can see myself swimming with the sharks, yet i am a bystander
as the thread of my life is strung tautly,
i watch myself bleed, gruesomely torn to pieces
i watch as the water darkens from spilt wine,
the wine that was once salty becomes sickly sweet around me
but i continue watching myself become bones stuck in their teeth.
its like being in an aquarium, encased in water,
and yet, still not a part of it, a distance, yet, a proximity
i watch myself drown through the looking glass, unable to help.
the sign says don’t tap the glass, but i pound and pound.
I am the only one watching myself slowly slow, and slowly stop.
stop breathing, stop fighting.
love is holding your breath, being cautious, yet careless.
Its diving recklessly, unsure whether to be sober, or drunk,
and being both.
its like seeing myself on a high diving board, the water beneath is so deep,
it seems to never start, and never end at the same time.
I can see myself, on the edge peering over,
scared to take a leap of faith,
yet relived i can still feel the sharp breaths,
nervous stomach,
because it means i can still feel, i am still capable of human emotions
i thought had left me long ago, before you.
Mar 18, 2018
Mar 18, 2018 at 9:07 PM UTC
The flame in my flesh burns tor like
Above conventions of average humanity,
Propelled to hatred of their opposite
By the pristine charm in the streaks of culture,
Their Florence comes from the glory of orthodoxities
In the time long fibres of religious pockets,
Islam, Christian, Hinduism and all that steadily
And firmly in piety aver perfection of Godliness,
Forgetting the flame of same *** with oral spice
In the God made flesh of the dear lesbian daughter,
Spell binding the equivalent in blossoms of the gay,
Provoking hatred from the threatened heterosexists,
But the oral *** of a lesbian is an apex of human pleasure
Surpassing all on earth and in heaven, as no human barricade
Of whatsoever caliber will cull lesbian’s feelings
From the glorious power in the genitals on kiss of lips,
As the tongue of the chic wag from side to other
Touching fountains of ****** glory in cement of sameness
Throwing threats of law and black order to dustbins
And trash yards of anachronisms as the power of LGBT
Engulfs the young world into in its protégé,
Shamelessly tethered on the sensual tentacles
Of maximum gusto in the ***** of oral *** with a dear ‘less’
In tune with all rhythms of the times
Remaining strange to the conservatives,
Ever seeking pleasure from where pain hails
Living gloomy life on a brink of melancholia,
Worry not lesbian daughter you are powerful,
In one away or so, rise up and walk tall
You have power in your oral ***
Oral *** Oral *** Oral *** of a lesbian!
Jul 11, 2014
Jul 11, 2014 at 4:43 AM UTC
I like my women like I like my flowers,
down to Earth, and she’s rooted to the concept.
From her orchard, orchids cry out that she’s
a beauty. A beauty as bold as baby’s breath
but she’s not soft-spoken. It’s written in her
blue-eyed, irises that she’s a stargazer
with a heart made of marigolds, laced together
by Queen Anne. She sprouted out of that cracked
cement with tulips curled to the cosmos, greeting
morning glories with a stellar smile, that I fell for
like a shooting star. She’s a bloomed-beauty that’s
bound to this Earth, and well, I’d pick her up any day.
© Matthew Harlovic
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 12:09 AM UTC
*Stranger I have roads in my eyes ,
The cement lies wet in solitude
Your footprints it waits to imprint
I robbed the sun from the world
In my eyes the sunflowers turn to him
On the sides I planted
Honeydew and daffodils
Their fragrance bids goodbye
to linger on my window sills
Come stranger visit them someday
While you resist your world to be on my way*
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 3:03 PM UTC
It’s been months since we last kissed
and I’ve been trying to figure out why love sounds more like an apology
than a confession when it comes from my mouth.
I came to the conclusion it’s because I have been emotionally unavailable
since I learned that no matter how much you love someone
it will not make them miss you.
I find myself surrounded by those who have left more than those who have stayed
so often they start to blur together.
You once said that loving me is like
constantly struggling to come up for air without ever being underwater,
but you didn’t notice I was suffocating under the absence of everyone
who had promised to stay.
Someone once told me “leave before they love you,
or you’ll stay until they don’t anymore.”
You were writing my name in cement and I was carving yours
in trees marked to be cut down, saying
“this is what happens when someone ruins you before you have a chance to ruin them.”
I’ve fallen in love with you more times than I can count,
and I’m not sure if that means I’ve fallen out of love just as many.
I kept showing you the way out because I wanted to see if you would leave
or find a way to lock the door.
I was too busy tearing them off their hinges
to notice you were desperately trying to bolt them shut.
I guess it’s only fitting I’m left asking the windowpanes where you went.
I think of the things I want to say to you like “it’s for the best”
and
“maybe it was never that good anyways”
but when I get the chance to say anything I know
all that will come out is I miss you, let me stay.
I’m trying not to let this bitterness leave a bad taste in my mouth
but you never saw the point of someone else’s lips on yours
unless they made your teeth shake,
and all I can ******* think about is you leaning in first for anyone but me.
The weight of your absence is so heavy
I can’t remember what it feels like to breathe without gasping.
There are a hundred different ways to say I miss you
but I’m stumbling over every single one
and I’ve realized you can only write about someone so much
before the only thing you can write about is the last time you saw them.
They say you’re only as good as the company you keep,
so I guess that’s why I haven’t been doing so well since you left me.
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 6:34 AM UTC
the cool wind in my hair
as you and I glide across
the cement jungle.
You make my life tolerable
in this crazy urban landscape,
my trusty metal steed that
helps me duck and weave in
stand still traffic of the Nation's capital.
nothing like flying through the city on you, my bicycle,
on this beautiful spring day. I know you can't speak,
but if you could, you would also say "wheeeeee" with glee.
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 10:50 AM UTC
The brush is still in the garage
on the cold, cement floor
beside the empty tin of paint,
its sides eternally dripping
with a dried, buttercup hue.
The walls which we smothered with color
are faded, now riddled with children’s earthy hand-prints
after a day in the mud. A mess to us,
the results of battles, safaris,
and space travels to them.
I could paint over the marks,
start over fresh and show off to friends.
But I think I’ll let it be.
No longer the bright yellow of a sun trapped in a painting,
these four walls have still brightened many days.
There has been roaring laughter,
divided by a few screaming matches
that have made the dog whimper.
This room has seen much of our lives,
and life cannot be painted over so easily.
So it stays. The color will always be buttercup to me.
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 1:21 PM UTC
Bonjour, hello to this French revolution, where people fought against the corrupted monarchy and created a new constitution. Hunger, no rights and no respect, they could not seem to solve it peacefully, so they cut off Louis the XVI neck. Marie Antoinette was a heartless greedy ***** she stole the people's food, so now she deserves some punishment, this is a historical moment for these people which they would soon cement. They started the Reign of Terror, which some may say was a costly and unnecessary error. Millions of people were killed and most were wrongly accused, their used to be equality, liberty, and fraternity, but all people saw was death, which is something not to be amused. The French Revolution where the third class fought the monarchy, so everyone could have true equality, liberty, and fraternity. Then came a guy named Napoléon who changed their wicked ways, he founded new ideas which created the future you see today. I know he wasn't exactly the best, he crowned himself the emperor, which no one had a say on, he pretended to respect the church and have meritocracy but really he was just a con, deceiving people as if they were just a couple of pawns. Napoléon is a wimp, he cost millions of lives, he also abandoned his armies multiple times, he may be one of the, greatest strategist's in the world, but really he's just a waste of time. Napoléon should have figured out not to attack Russia at winter time, it never worked out before so why would it work this time. He may be a symbol of France and the greatest self proclaimed emperor, but he died because of his pride just like Maximillian Robespierre. That was the end of the French Revolution, they slowly lost their power but they still hold onto their republican constitution. So aurevoir for now, bon voyage to you grande revolution, till your next controversial decisions and solutions.
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 9:25 AM UTC
on the other-side of a grave wall
there may rightly be a water-vessel
that is chicken-hearted by birth
there may not be around her
a stretching of water-body
do remember
when we all went that day to catch the train
the room of the rail-station was totally vanished
after enquiry it was revealed that
it had gone to observe holidays with its family
in the yolk of the eggs of the snipe
before opening the no-door to take a leap i also knew
that the top-branch of a green and large grasshopper
was mainly made up of white-stones
i did not also have
any mystic words
given by the moon
to recite silently
so without caring for the water
i made a all-complete ocean
with sands and cement
throughout the year
solvency gets down
from the body of the traffic signal
even-then
the monsoon this year
has been under the poverty-line
and the ray of hope is that
it is this circuitous route
leading to the top of the himalaya
that would one day
play the tune of differential calculus
on her guitar
Oct 1, 2010
Oct 1, 2010 at 6:58 AM UTC
my clumsy limbs
held together with wet cement
taught rubber bands
struggle to bind my flesh
I am but a mess of unimportant matter
another aimless being to fill the space
unique for my twisted thoughts
hysterically pleading with a calm face
speaking warped words i do not mean
lips sealed like the lid on my boiling ***
dumping oppressed feeling into its contents
bubbling over sweetly burning my raw skin hot
blistered I hide behind my cotton disguise
my misshapen body covered in a gruesome sweat
sickening wounds throb for the sight of others
witness my plague of dry sobs and cigarettes
and so i shriek silently like my sister and father
hold my tongue saturated with sour emotion
my poorly constructed moth-eaten being
self sabotages in a desperate motion
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 10:48 AM UTC
Why I Always Carry Tissues
To My Children:
I'm laughing at myself,
As I am prone to do because
Why I Always Carry Tissues
Is the title of a poem
I write for you.
There is a story here,
Of parenting, and responsibilties
That transcends yourself, defines me,
Vis-a-vis you,
then and there, and maybe now.
When you were small,
I took you by the hand,
The cement canyons, trails & rivers
of West Eighty Six Street,
Together, we would ford.
Periodically, as Fathers are prone to do,
Your hand, from my hand,
I would release
So you could fall down,
All on your own.
It bemused me that I could see
Three or four paces ahead of thee
Exactly which crack,
Upon which you would trip,
And come crying back to me.
Back-to-me.
That was then.
And now,
Yes, no more,
Back-to-me.
But I always had tissues
to dry your eyes
And no surprise,
I still do,
Always will.
These days, they,
more likely used to dry mine,
As I have forded that Styxy river,
When crossed, you spend more of the day,
Liking Back more,
Then looking ahead.
No matter, by right and tradition,
It is still my mission, that
when you need, when you bleed,
as I know you surely shall,
These pocket tissues will be there
Ready, willing and able, fully capable,
of snatching away your tears.
**When you need,
When you bleed,
And you surely shall,
These pockets of mine,
Of tissue made,
Are waiting for your tears,
And you, to fill them,
For without them,
Their raison d'etre is unfulfilled.**
These used tissues are my history book,
Re the art of loving, and the arch-i-texture of life,
Of tears and hearts,
And concrete spills,
That need knees to be complete.
That is why you will find me, without fail,
Ready, willing and able, holding my
White Badge of Courage at the ready,
Waiting patiently, for my mission to be redeemed,
Missions known as parenting schemes.
The scheme is clear, even if
my tissues you no longer request,
You will let your own babies
fall n' fail, then take their tears
Put them in your pocket,
keep them forever wet,
Like my memories of you
the ones I cherish best...
Perhaps a tradition
We will start,
Unsightly bulges in our pocket rear,
Where we will store our packet of saver-saviors
Removers of our dear one's fears.
If we are truly wise
Those tissued memories
We will keep,
Die among them contented,
Knee-scraped deep
When tears fall...
2008
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 9:09 AM UTC
you’re a sick, sick person
my little,
old
love.
with eyes like ferocious , angry
beetles, you
chew into me and cut out
tiny,
stinging
holes.
if only you knew i wasn’t invincible,
if only you knew
you were toxic.
the cement is wet when you bash my head
open,
and
the cement is still wet when it
rains.
Sep 10, 2018
Sep 10, 2018 at 1:04 AM UTC